Passage Into History
by WarlordFil
Summary: As Warlord Trannis' hold on Cybertron slips slowly but inexorably from his grasp, his Chief of Intelligence knows only one possible redemption. Spotlight on one of the G1 comic's obscure characters! Oneshot, complete.


_passage into history_

It was a death sentence, for a Decepticon warlord to reminisce about his glory days when there was fighting still to be done. Lord Trannis was well aware of that. Nevertheless, he sat alone in the Citadel's council chambers, slouched in his command chair, knowing damn well that somewhere out there in the darkness, Emirate Xaaron and Elita One were leading their followers in battle against the Empire. The Citadel was quiet as a crypt; its compliment of troops was doubtlessly also out in the Cybertronian night, attempting to do something about those Autobots. Meanwhile, Trannis sat here—a statue of a Decepticon in white and brass, in a solitary building on the Tagon Heights.

As the Decepticon Emperor, he could—should—be in the War Room in Polyhex, or the command palace in Kaon…but in his current mood, only his hometown of Tagon would soothe him. The future of the Empire weighed heavily on his shoulders and heart tonight. The war ahead of him seemed impossible to win, the pressure from the Empire unbearable, and none of his usual diversions could hold his interest or even summon a flicker of enthusiasm. The other warlords were elsewhere—he was not sure what they were doing. He could not bring himself to care, and so, though he knew the omission was critical, he sought relief instead of reconnaissance. No more of the present! The past was the only place that offered a momentary respite from his pain.

A pair of red optics watched him from the shadows that hung heavy in the buttresses above Trannis' chambers. Those optics were old enough to remember the early days, when Trannis was a young warlord. When the Empire was murmuring in surprise about Uraya's newest prince, the soldier from Tagon, rather than muttering with dissatisfaction.

The Decepticons had a long-standing tradition of leaders with aggressive alt modes. Aircraft had been historically popular, though as of late, tanks, cannons and self-propelled guns had become the vogue. Blame Megatron for that. But in the years since gaining office in Praxus, Trannis—creation of an old Decepticon family best known for its feats of construction and engineering—had taught Autobot and Decepticon alike a healthy fear of a combat bulldozer. Half tank, half tractor dozer, he was heavily armoured, armed to the teeth, and a quick enough thinker to outwit anything that he couldn't crush outright.

Then, three million years ago, Megatron and his entire crew had vanished into space, along with Optimus Prime and the Ark. Megatron had left Shockwave in charge, but Shockwave was a managerial sort, not a visionary, not a leader. He was a placeholder, keeping the Empire running until a suitable Emperor could rise to claim the throne in Megatron's absence.

It was general consensus that Thunderwing would eventually take the position, but years went by and Thunderwing's move never came. The royal son of Valckasta stayed in his territory, delving into his musty libraries in search of forbidden knowledge while the Empire hung in limbo, waiting for her leader. Trannis, overcome at last by the impatience of youth, had made his bid for power. In doing so, Trannis—unwittingly or knowingly?—had tapped an undercurrent in the Decepticon psyche.

The Empire had spent long enough mourning Megatron. Its citizens chafed under Shockwave's logical and orderly and ever so boring method of rule. Its warriors were tired of waiting for Thunderwing to take action. It was as though the whole Empire had been swept up in the same tide that surged through Trannis' core. There could be no more waiting, no more settling for half measures. Their moment was now, if they would only take it.

And take it they did: Altihex, Kalis, Nova Cronum. Cities fell like dominos. The Autobots fled, broken, before the Decepticon onslaught. Trannis' rise to fame had been meteoric, and he funneled his energies into victory after victory…

…until, on the gates of Iacon, he foundered. Try as he might, he could not crack the Iaconian defenses. The Autobots crouched behind their city walls, and the Decepticons entrenched themselves in the landscape around Iacon. The siege dragged on, stalled, for thousands of years.

The Autobots resupplied their city through secret underground supply lines. Although the Decepticons dominated the Cybertronian landscape, the Autobots were masters of the warrens that ran beneath the planet. Like turborats, they scuttled about in the dark, striking from cover, melting away into the shadows. And like turborats, the infestation was nigh impossible to destroy.

So Trannis took the long game, stalling those who said he'd lost his fighting edge and planning for a victory down the road. Not long ago, it seemed as though Trannis had finally won his long-orchestrated triumph. His diplomats and secret agents had, with their combined efforts, convinced the Autobot High Council to surrender. No sooner had their signatures been inputted into the datapad than Trannis had his Mayhem Attack Squad slaughter the lot of them.

Except Emirate Xaaron. For some reason Trannis' spies and diplomats had neglected to inform him that Xaaron disagreed strongly with the majority on the Council, so strongly that he'd done the very un-Autobot-like thing of refusing to sign the surrender or even show up to the ceremony. As a result, the Autobot insurgence wasn't crushed—it just went wholly underground.

And now, as before, Trannis was fighting a losing battle. For every Autobot supply convoy they intercepted, ten slipped through. For every Autobot they killed, the Decepticons lost five warriors to ambushes, booby traps, bombs. Decepticon property was visible and therefore vulnerable. The Autobots, guerillas, could fold their gear and vanish from an area in seconds, and to keep them out, the Decepticons had to maintain a constant presence there. Morale was eroding, the war effort was faltering, and Trannis did not know how to stop his Empire's decay. Nor did he know how to stop the decay that was gnawing away at him inside—the paralyzing vampire that fed on his fighting spirit.

The red optics gazed down at Trannis. Their owner wondered if the file his supervisor had given him had been true: that for all his mighty clashes against the Autobots, Lord Trannis fought his worst battles with some demon that no one else could see. If so, it bode ill for the interm Decepticon Emperor.

*

Assassination was not really the Autobot way, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"I thought Lord Trannis was locked in some sort of depression or something," Broadside muttered to himself as the patrol of seven Autobots waded through the waist-deep sludge, weapons in hand, headlights illuminating the grimy walls around them.

Springer glanced curiously at his friend.

"It's what I heard."

"Scared?" Sandstorm asked.

"Look, if you're not scared, you're stupid. I'd like to see the Decepticon Emperor lying dead as much as you, but I don't relish being the one to do it," Broadside said.

"If you don't want to be here, then leave," Road Rage snapped as she slogged forward through the sewer. "Next left is the main line going right up under Trannis' citadel. I don't want to be going in there with anyone who's not sure of himself."

"I never said I don't want to be here," Broadside protested. "I'm just…curious…why we're going to all this trouble when, from all reports, Trannis is currently paralyzed with some sort of personal psychological issue. Isn't he already out of the fight, in every way that counts?"

Their leader spoke at last. "We're here," Impactor said grimly, "because Emirate Xaaron told us to be. We have our orders. We'll carry them out."

"My pleasure," Springer replied.

"I wonder," Raincloud said quietly, her voice barely audible. "Are we taking out Trannis for legitimate military reasons, or because Xaaron wants some most un-Autobot-like revenge?"

"I'm all for revenge," Sandstorm retorted. "He slaughtered our High Council. He's got to be taken to justice for it." He brandished his weapon, visibly illustrating an enthusiasm to be the instrument of that justice.

"Besides," Road Rage added, "look at the tip that Cross Cut in Intelligence got for us. Trannis' citadel is going to be practically deserted tonight. When are we going to get the chance to get this close to the Decepticon leader again with all the odds on our side?"

"Where did Cross Cut get that tip?" Sandstorm asked.

"When does Intel ever tell anyone anything?" Road Rage laughed. "You know how spooks are."

"This better not be a trap," Springer muttered.

"Quiet," Impactor said, as he turned towards the left. "We're almost there."

*

It was a long time before Trannis became aware that he was no longer alone.

For a brief moment, he hoped it was Howlback. He recognized, reluctantly, that he could probably use a sympathetic ear, a level head and a loyal heart. Most of the Empire was familiar with the odd pair: the combat engineering vehicle and the felinoid quadraped who was his regular companion. They were unique among Citadel personnel, both for their rank and their strange alt modes. And Howlback, to date, had been the only one who could win any victories against Trannis' internal enemy.

Trannis felt a prickle at the back of his neck when he realized that his silent companion was not Howlback. There were no feline optics glowing golden in the shadows. No familiar voice raised in greeting. Instead, a small, narrow, red optic peered down from a carving high overhead as Trannis pretended not to be looking in its direction.

Lord Trannis' emotions were divided. Part of him wondered why the other Decepticons had been so long in sending an assassin. He knew that his men now considered him a failure; he knew there were other warlords eager to supplant him. And he was tired, so very tired. The others were all elsewhere tonight—perhaps together, perhaps planning this move. It made sense.

The other part of him wondered if perhaps there might be enough fight left in his frame to hold onto his throne a little longer. There was still a wildfire smouldering within him, embers that remained hot under the weight of gloomy chains and the Emperor's crown. Something inside him remembered what it meant to be a Decepticon, to never surrender.

But the other mechanism did not strike. Instead, it spread wings and darted out his window, a streak of cobalt blue in the dimness. The interm Emperor recognized its distinctive silhouette. Garboil.

Trannis felt a sudden chilling in his fuel tank. The paint scheme marked the interloper as one of the Cobalt Sentries, the secret police service that he himself had established. And the Cobalt Sentries' commander was none other than his oldest friend, Howlback. The situation was worse than he had thought if Howlback had lost control of her operatives. If they were beginning to give their allegiance to outside mechanisms instead of to Howlback and, through her, to Trannis himself.

Garboil had made one error in judgement. Trannis had not failed to notice the Cobalt Sentry's presence, or his escape. The Emperor was not that far gone, not yet. Nor were his wits too dull to realize that Garboil was off to make a report about his behaviour, and that the report was unlikely to be favourable. Trannis even managed to summon a brief curiosity about who might be the recipient of Garboil's report…Thunderwing? Shockwave? Straxus?

But what Trannis was unable to do was summon the ability to do anything about it, as his depressive apathy reached up to swallow him once more. The sudden spark of energy died within him, and he sank back down onto his throne, embers glowing faintly beneath the weight of command.

*

Springer took point. He was the first one out of the makeshift "trap door" that Sandstorm had cut between the top of the sewage pipe and the sub-basement of Trannis' lair. Raincloud emerged next, and then it was Broadside's turn.

Broadside, the newest member of the Wreckers, had never been inside a Decepticon palace before. From the look on Springer and Sandstorm's faces, neither had they. Impactor came next, his face grim, followed by Road Rage and Sandstorm. Rack and Ruin brought up the rear.

Impactor raised his arm, looked at the device strapped to his wrist. A small green light was blinking there: Cross Cut's signal. The Intelligence operative had promised them a last-minute warning. Red meant withdraw. Green meant go.

There would be no more talking—no sound to tip off any Decepticons that remained in the citadel. Impactor gestured with his hand for Springer to lead on. They had already memorized the maps that Autobot Intel had given them. They already knew where they were going.

*

Trannis heard the footsteps in the corridor. Who might that be, then? No announcement had come over his com link asking him if he would receive company.

He rose to his feet, weary. In all likelihood it was the Decepticon Warlords—Shockwave, Thunderwing, Straxus and the rest. In all likelihood they'd actually managed to select a replacement for him through diplomacy rather than through combat. In all likelihood they were coming to execute him.

And they were…but it wasn't Thunderwing who came through the door. It was a green Autobot, and right behind him were another six Autobots. The gold one Trannis recognized. Impactor. And the others—they must be the infamous Wreckers.

Shock and rage shot through the Decepticon Emperor, and the depressive malaise that had shackled his mind fell away in a rising blast of flame. How the Wreckers got into his citadel was immaterial. They were here, and they would die.

"You dare disturb Lord Trannis?" he demanded, feeling a strange bite of resentment towards the Autobots for ripping away his solitary pain. The fighting fire rose in him, hot and pulsing and full of strength, blazing as though it had never faltered. He hefted his right arm, where he wore the massive shield that formed the blade of his bulldozer mode. His left hand reached for his signature weapon, a multi-barrelled cannon. He would have no trouble holding off these Autobots until backup arrived, and then the slaughter would begin.

Lord Trannis keyed his internal communications link and received only static.

The Wreckers opened fire. Trannis abandoned his intent to grasp his cannon and instead moved sideways, deflecting laser blasts on his shield as he used his left hand to key the wall-mounted communications console.

Static again. It wasn't just his personal equipment that wasn't working. Someone was jamming the entire citadel. Trannis cursed, unwilling to shout for help, and noticed that one of the Wreckers was trying to get between him and his cannon. He bellowed in rage and rushed her.

From the depths of the shadows behind his throne, Trannis caught a glimpse of golden eyes, and in that moment he knew that no one would be coming to his aid. That it had all been carefully arranged—the absence of the other warlords, the jamming, the Wreckers led right to his chambers.

In that minute, he knew he was betrayed.

*

The outcome was inevitable. Trannis may have been a Decepticon warlord, but the Wreckers were the Autobots' elite, and there were seven of them. Regardless, Trannis threw himself into battle, and when it was done, no fewer than four of the Autobots were on the ground around him. Though their fellows dragged the bodies away afterwards, Trannis was certain that at least one of them would not rise again. And all the while, a pair of golden optics watched impassively from the gloom.

It was only when Impactor had driven an electrostaff through Trannis' laser core that the command chamber warning lights, at long last, began to flash.

"Withdraw," Impactor said.

"He's not finished yet," Springer pointed out grimly. His gun was out of charges, so he used it as a makeshift handcuff to pin Trannis' left hand to the side of his throne, preventing the warlord from using his dominant hand to pull Impactor's weapon free.

"We'll be finished if the Decepticons find us here," Road Rage retorted. "And Sandstorm and Raincloud need immediate medical care."

"Trannis won't survive this," Impactor said, glaring down at the fallen Decepticon warlord. "Wreckers, withdraw."

And they had left Lord Trannis alone to die.

He knew what they did not—that the warning lights meant nothing. His internal com link had not been activated. No alarm had been sounded. No Decepticons would be coming.

Lord Trannis was left on the floor of his command chamber, sprawled in a slowly spreading pool of his own oil and fluids, with Impactor's electrostaff impaling him.

It was then that the golden optics detached themselves from the shadows and stepped forward into the light. Their owner regarded Trannis with an animal's eyes, a cobalt predator.

*

"You," Trannis rasped, and Howlback paused three steps away from him, watching him, with no readable expression on her face.

He had expected this sort of thing from Thunderwing. Surely the warrior-mystic, with all his abilities, would not be content to wait in his castle forever. Or Straxus, who was impetuous and hungry for power the way Trannis himself had been long ago. Or even Shockwave, who would blame Trannis' failure to kill Xaaron on a faulty application of logic.

That Howlback would be the betrayer, he would not have ever guessed.

Trannis grimaced, both from the pain in his body and that in his soul. "Why?" he rasped. What grotesque failure had he been, that his best friend had seen fit to murder him? He wondered if she would even bother answering before she completed the job that the Wreckers had left unfinished.

"It is the best I could give you," she said simply.

Confusion flared up in him. She read it in his optics and answered the question he did not have time to formulate.

"Your death was a foregone conclusion. The Autobots are enraged by the slaughter of their Council; the Decepticons, now accustomed to victory, have become impatient by the recent military setbacks. Both sides had made up their minds to kill you. These facts are beyond my power to change. The only question left to decide is whether you would die by the treachery of your fellow Decepticons, or die a hero, fighting the Autobots to the last."

Howlback focused, meaningfully, on Impactor's weapon and it was only then that Trannis understood.

"You will…?"

"Tell Shockwave that the Wreckers duped the Warlords and the troops out of the Citadel and sabotaged the alarm system, and that you fought them off, singlehandedly defending our military secrets, sacrificing yourself for your Empire."

Lord Trannis dimmed his optics.

He felt his left arm loosen, go slack. It was Howlback, biting through Springer's makeshift cuff with her mighty jaws, freeing his arm.

He would not go down in history as a failure. Never mind that he was not entirely a hero—this death, at least, would erase the ignomy of the past year. The records would say he died in combat, a Decepticon patriot. He would be vindicated. He would be victorious.

"They will fight for you," Howlback murmured in his audio. "They will avenge you a thousandfold. I shall make certain of it."

And Lord Trannis felt his inner demon—the monster that had haunted him most of his waking life—fall away, defeated at last.


End file.
